Baron Danglars sat on the side of his bed, reflecting on the day that had rushed past him. A new client, one Count of Monte Cristo, had outsmarted and outclassed him while setting up an account. Then, out of what Danglars perceived to be sheer coincidence, his wife Hermine flew into a passion over her dappled grey horses. Horses which our banker had unintentionally sold to Monte Cristo. Mercifully, business was otherwise uneventful. The only thing that plagued him that evening was Hermine's passive rage until a letter soothed her.

Now, as night fell, Danglars felt unusually thoughtful. Not over Monte Cristo and his mysterious origins. No, that would come to light soon enough. It was his own origins his mind urged to delve into. Mainly, his first name. "How could I have gotten this far without disclosing it is beyond me," he growled as he climbed under the covers. "Even when I was to be wed to Hermine, the priest never asked for it. Unless Hermine told him without me knowing, which is very like her."

After ten minutes of contemplating the "how" of the question, his mind promptly switched to the "why". Why did he decide to bury his first name in the first place, anyway? Was it because it was embarrassing to him? Or was it connected to a past he would rather forget? Or did all of his insisting of being formal with everyone purged that dreaded name from everyone's minds? "The only annoying thing about these questions is that it was so long ago," he thought as he stared at the ceiling before him. "My memory is not what it used to be, all filled with foolish childhood dreams and the like. The furthest I can go is when that wretched Dantes was sent to the Chateau D'if." Not wanting to relive that section of his past, he ended those ten minutes of speculation with a shut of the eyes and a deep sigh. Maybe, one day, he'll find out the answer to such a nagging idea.

Deep within the realm of dreams, Danglars awoke to find himself in pitch darkness. He waited for a flash of lightning on the seas and a feeling of wind blowing on his face, but no such thing happened. Just blackness and the cold marble floor he was sitting on. "Where am I?" he asked as he rose to his feet. "Hello? Monsieur Monte Cristo, is this your dreamscape?"

After stumbling blindly for a minute or two, he was thrown off again by whispering voices circling his hearing. From what he could gather, they were calling for several people. Julian, Eugene, Fernand... all these names and more echoed in the void. "Who are these voices and why do they want these men?" Danglars inquired as the calls kept on. "Is this a trial? A vivid dream gone wrong? This is certainly nothing I've experienced before." On he stumbled until he bumped against a podium. Then, a bright white light flooded the room and nearly blinded the misplaced banker.

When he recovered, he could see men and women sitting in metal chars and wearing the strangest of fashions. Some dressed in simple shirts and slacks while others donned outfits of differing time periods. They were engaged in a heated discussion until this moment. Now, they were confused and alarmed. "Who are you?" asked one of the women, her language a warped-sounding English. "You look like one of those guys from the book I've been reading."

Danglars eyed the room for a moment, wondered how he managed to understand a foreign language in seconds, then cleared his throat. "I am Baron Danglars from Paris, France," he answered nonchalantly. "And I presume all of your are from the American lands? Your words give it away."

Another woman laughed in spite of herself. "Not everyone!" she exclaimed as she lowered a flat device of some sort. "I'm Italian, he's German—"

"And yet I can understand all of you?"

The Italian blinked. "Yeah, that's how these lucid dream meetings work," she replied slowly. "I'll admit, it's a weird development for the twenty-first century."

Twenty-first century! Danglars' skin paled. How did he, of all the citizens of nineteenth century France, end up in this mess of a meeting? This was a feat only mad men would boast about, not an aging banker! He opened his mouth to ask this, but a new thought halted him. What if these future foreigners could answer the question he had minutes ago? What if, due to their obvious technological advances, they could help him uncover his past? His eyes shone their usual greedy glint as he drew himself up. "Well then, since we are gathered here, I would like to inquire about something trivial," he began in his most confident tone. "I was wondering, seeing that you are clearly more superior in knowledge, if you would know what my first name is."

The assembly looked at each other, then back at their questioner. "That's the thing, sir," said one of the gentlemen, signaling a brash-looking bystander to hush. "We have no idea either. In fact, that's what we were arguing about when you came in."

For once in a very long time, Danglars' heart sank. No one had any hints. No one had any leads. But, being a man who refused to back down, he took that last sentence as a challenge. "And what were your conclusions?" he asked haughtily. "Humor me! Maybe your ideas will jog my memory."

"Okay, Mr. Rat," sniggered the brash one. "But something tells me you're in for disappointment!" Suddenly, everyone pulled out a small book or a flat device and skimmed through their notes. "I keep calling you 'Julian', as the anime lovers do!" a woman with a black ponytail called out.

"Well, these 'anime' people (whoever they may be) are wrong," scoffed Danglars in return. "Julian sounds more like your era than mine."

"How about Eugene? I heard that somewhere," suggested another

"Me? Have a name that sounds like my own daughter's? It sounds plausible from your perspective, but I know that wasn't how that ordeal went!"

"Edmond?" grinned the brash one.

Danglars' face burned red. "My insight tells me you know more than you should," he muttered as he tapped his fingers on the podium. "But, no, that's not mine."

"Tatum!" laughed a voice in the back. "It has to be, if not Danglars!"

"No and no," the nameless man replied darkly. "Where are you even getting those names? From a list?"

So this debate went on for several minutes. Each person called out a name, only to be shot down by the banker's logic or snark. Some even dared to find alternate accounts of his life and give suggestions from there. Even so, no one was any closer to the truth. No memories were jogged. No voice of his past stirred. Danglars, wearier than when he went to bed, silently left the podium. "You are clearly as ignorant as I am, if not more so," he grumbled as he walked away. "If I ever find your ancestors, rest assured they will be refused my council. Goodnight and farewell."

"Good night, Antoine," a single voice responded.

Danglars started. Somehow, those words sent ghostly visions of the past into his head. He turned to look back at the council. There, in the midst of the surprised crowd, sat a tired woman in her night clothes. "I have no idea if I'm right or not, but at least I made an impact," yawned the woman before she dozed off. The others, however, were far from tired. They rambled and chattered as they faded from view. The white light obscured them before shifting into a golden hue. The lucid dream was over, but his sleep wasn't.

From then on, those visions that haunted him returned in a more vivid form. His mother, young in face yet mature in heart, tending to his tattered-clothed child self. His boyhood adventures with his mates at a small village in the countryside. The first ever time he set sail on a boat... All of these he wandered through in a daze. He could hear his name being called out, but very faintly. He knew it wasn't Antoine (unless it was and his hearing failed him), but he didn't care. The fact that these scenes survived in his mind was more precious to him now. He travelled on, enjoying and reliving everything he saw in a different light. For a few moments, he was free.

"Danglars," a more youthful Hermine addressed him. "It's time to wake up. Don't you hear the bell?"

Danglars stirred in his bed, refusing to open his eyes. "Let me sleep, Hermine," he insisted as he buried his head underneath the covers. "I'm having such a wonderful dream that I intend on staying in it." However, a hard push on his back woke him right up. He surrendered to his wife's urging and crawled out of bed. "Before I start my first potential quarrel of the day, may I ask you something a little personal?" he asked as he walked to the closet and changed into his outdoor clothes.

"As long as it isn't about yesterday, I am willing to answer," Hermine said as she adjusted her morning dress. "What is it?"

"When I married you, did I ever tell you my first name?"

Hermine arched an eyebrow. "Of course you did," she answered. "But I thought you told me never to bring it up since it was so embarrassing for you. Is something wrong?"

"Everything is fine, as far as I'm concerned," Danglars said before returning into the main bedroom. "It's just this whole Monte Cristo affair has made my mind wander into peculiar places. What if he becomes more than an acquaintance and we go by a first name basis? I can't deprive him of such a custom by not remembering! It could risk my business!"

"So will fretting about the future, Baron," reminded Hermine. "If the day comes when he does ask, I will do what I did on the day before our marriage: Tell him privately just like the abbe."

Danglars smiled imperceptibly. "Obsessed with horses though you are, you always know how to fulfill my expectations," he chuckled as he left the room. It was a good thing he did, or he would have suffered the wrath of a grudge-holding Hermine Danglars.